Logs:Glitteratus
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| RL Date: 18 March, 2009 |
| Who: Anvori, Leova |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Anvori makes sandwiches. Leova brings fruit. |
| Where: Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 23, Month 3, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Edeline/Mentions, Potipher/Mentions, Riahla/Mentions, Satiet/Mentions, Suireh/Mentions, Thedrin/Mentions |
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| While the bustle of lunch starting in the living cavern directly affects the hubbub of the kitchens - cooks working at overspeed to meet potential demands - Anvori is one of the few spots of calm. Instead of taking part in the revelry of lunch time at High Reaches Weyr, he's standing placidly at the end of one of the kitchen islands, a loaf of bread, jars of some sort of pepper spread, and various thin sliced meats and cheese at ready. There's lettuce leaves and tomatoes midst the other various vegetables on a plate, that given the cutting board and knife at his elbow, was self-prepared. The world could be ending around him, and there pensive-faced Anvori would stay, standing, putting together several sandwiches with meticulous precision. Such a contrast to the quiet nighthearth with the disquiet at its heart. Isn't it? A Glacier greenrider slips from the inner caverns into the eddies of people at work, pausing here, walking more quickly there, the better to go along with the flow. There's a sack in her arms, closely and gently held the way a child might be, a young child that doesn't fret and pull and swing from one hand. Along the way, the path takes her near to where Anvori works and, why not? She steps off it, around the island's corner, the better to set the sack atop clear space where it wouldn't, shouldn't, interfere with the task he's set himself. Gently. Is it a child? He surely can't tell with the briesft glance he casts upwards onto the lump that appears nearby - the attention paid merely the passing interest towards movement in his vicinity, before he's back to putting together another sandwich. Bread. Knife swirled spread. Then, he pauses, fingers hovering over the decision he must now make of which cheeses and which meats to put in between the slices. "What d'ya think? Salami or sweet-baked ham? Provolone or cheddar?" Hazel eyes lift beneath the salt and pepper of his raven hair (hair which is sorely in need of a trim), a smile following quickly thereafter as he seeks out the owner of that particular sack, child, thing. She's settling the sack, opening its mouth with her thumbs, rolling it over itself with its contents still in shadow, but the question lifts her gaze and in a moment of surprise she's smiling too. "Provolone," Leova recommends to him, and now that smile's made it into her voice, even as she looks down to getting her own task finished: unrolling the sack further. Plucking out its contents with quick, careful fingers: a plump must-be-Southern fig, and then another and another, but she sets the first between them before making a little pyramid for the others. "Rest, depends on what you'll do with it before you eat it. And salami keeps better. The ham... might as well eat it if you got it, hm?" The smile that fixes itself onto Anvori's features is such a far cry from the fire and whiskey of their previous and only encounter. And whether that meeting has been passed off as a distant memory of drunken nights and wistful yearnings or there's recollection of Leova is unclear from the way those glittering hazel eyes fall from studying Leova's face to the way her hand pulls apart the sack and starts scattering its wares on the counter. The smile, it not only persists but grows in minute increments with each fig's appearance, until he's unable to resist and reaches out to pluck the top of the pyramid away. "Could make sandwiches with the salami and wrap halves of these in the ham too." So much can happen in even just over a Turn, at Tillek at the very least. And here? Whether or not Leova senses Anvori's temptation, she doesn't guard her little plump prizes, only keeps stacking. Until temptation's too much, until he moves to steal one. That's when he gets a sidelong look, distinctly amused, rather than a swat. "Could do. Better if they're warmed, though. So they open up, start..." what's the word? She looks at him like he should have a better one, the next fig caught between thumb and forefinger, "Melting? Into each other. If you can say that of a fruit." It's at 'warmed' that Anvori cuts a look through the bustling kitchen, as if by stare alone he might part the gaggle of people surrounding their relative calm, and look to see if the stoves are in use. They likely are and after mere seconds of fruitless staring, the Tillekian gives up with the slightest shrug and devil-may-care smile that's punctuated by an idle, almost boyish upward toss of that fig that's then caught at the last minute before it might fall too low to catch. Serious, he isn't, not in his teasing inquiry that again takes in Leova from waist on up and then back down-up again. "Impressed?" Leova follows his glance, though leaves off even sooner than he, the better to carefully and quickly stack more fruit: figs, but then the larger, rounder apricots that follow, glowing like so many velvety jewels against the granite. Which isn't to say that she can't notice the play, roll her eyes good-humoredly rather than shy from the look-over. "Maybe if you caught it between your teeth," she allows in like tone. Only, a few more stacked apricots later, she tugs her flight jacket just a little more closely about her and asks, "What's the news out of Tillek? I still have your whiskey, you know." He listens with the absentmindedness of one preoccupied with something -else-. Something having to do with her nose, or perhaps her face in general. It's as she touches on the subjects of Tillek and whiskey that a quizzical curve of his brows lifts. "Have-," Anvori's pleasant tenor pauses, his head tip as uncertain as the hazel eyes that again refocus on Leova. "Have we met? I'm almost certain we have and from what you say, and yet-." Apology colors his face, not with a blush, but with the brightness of a self-deprecating smile. "I don't know that I'd have forgotten an encounter with you." He does have the temerity to add, the fleeting, teasing smile visible before he turns faux attention back to his stacks of sandwiches, "Was our interlude at least memorable? Should I be kicking myself for forgetting?" His question lifts her gaze from the fruit again, hazel to hazel, just for a moment until he goes on. Leova starts to nod, but then Anvori's talking further, abbreviating the gesture. Again her gaze flicks up, only this time her eyes narrow on him instead of roll. "Very kind," the greenrider says, just one corner of her mouth tucking up along the way for his sallies, and then what she rolls is the latest apricot in his direction before getting back to stacking. Again. "Once, though I've seen you now and again in the Snowasis," because who wouldn't have? "I'm Leova. Vrianth's. Out of Tillek, before." More apricots, and more, until the sack's about empty, and she fishes gingerly within to make certain. "And," so graciously! "Reckon you might have done the kicking already, the next morning. All that moonshine..." What he might not remember clearly, still (all that moonshine, of course), he cleverly attempts to mask now with full apology bright in his glittering eyes. And in the plate of sandwiches he scoots over. "Peace offering," he states, grinning wryly, "For the amount of kicking of my own petard I mus- did on your behalf. I don't usually drink that much." Ah, the memories must be returning. "Tillek, you know. Bad business all around. But the Lady Edeline and her son are doing well." If there's any flicker of tenseness in the tenor, it's hard to discern without listening for it. "At long last Tillek has a male heir to continue its line." Beat. "Lee-ooh-va." "Bribery," Leova counters, shaking out the sack and a bit of twig or two in the process, which she then has to pick off her sweater. "Don't know about that." Doesn't know about looking at those so-glittering eyes again either, apparently, though there's that crook to her mouth again as she folds up the sack, stuffs it in a pocket. Dusts off her hands. Reaches over to separate the sandwiches, with a litte apricot-and-fig fence between them: clearly he must have half, and of course the Weyr gets the rest of the delivery. All that can be done while listening, listening closely. "That I'd heard. Was wondering if you knew anything more like..." and then she's looking up. "Anvori." It's almost a plea. "Not like that. And you're distracting." The brackets about his mouth indent, pushed further inward by the growing smile across his features. The plea elicits a reaction, though not in the way that might be desired. Now that she's looking, Anvori can't help his smile, nor the way his eyes relinquish what irritation the subject of Edeline and her child might have roused; relinquish, melted into his generally easy-going nature. And that smile again. Though his eyes drop to watch the build of an apricot-fig fence between the sandwiches, they don't linger there long, hazel escaping to find the fig in his own hands, which he brings to his lips to test the toughness of the skin with a test nibble. "I know as much as the next person. How would a fisherman's son gain private audience with the Lord and Lady Tillek?" Despite how bitter the words are, it's layered in an overly good-natured tone. Then, a concession, "They seem... happy enough, Leova." Her name isn't elongated in the same way, but the faint emphasis exists even in its shortened version. Rather than immediately eat, herself, Leova rests her elbows on the counter's corner that separates them, leather against granite with the barest clink of metal contacting, somewhere. Slouching her shoulders lets her look up at him, chin on hands, leaning a little hipshot as counterbalance. And that lets her study Anvori's expression as well as his tone, for which she says more gently, afterward, "Was thinking of... people, actually. Word on the docks, the bars, wherever. Not so much the Lady, nor her lord. Her heir." Anvori's breath catches when her intent is clarified so. It's always either what's said or what isn't said, and the interpretation therein of vague questions that leads to more conclusions. And perhaps aware that his interpretation of her curiosity has betrayed more of his thoughts than he wishes, the brewer is silent; silent as he puts the once-nibbled fig onto the cutting board and begins halving them so the juicy seeds and ripe flesh within are now exposed to the air. If she continues to watch, his profile, bent over the work of halving one fig and considering what to do with it, is shadowed. His eyes, obscured by long lashes, are dropped. His jaw, working its way towards a response, is visible. "You should eat one of the sandwiches." She does watch. And, a little while later, she complies: reaching out to gradually free one half of a sandwich from its mate, careful of the crumbs, of the bits of filling that like to escape. Still leaning, Leova brings it to her mouth, bites in, and carefully chews. She can wait. Can see what he'll do, or not do, with the rest. He doesn't have to look to her to see what she does, the peripheral of his vision is enough to get the gist. So he's aware when she complies and in response, the hunched set of his shoulders relaxes fractionally. "Good?" Finding equilibrium, if only in the mundanity of small talk, Anvori turns his cheek up so he might study Leova and her forward lean. "It should be good. It's a fruit spread I picked up from a cook at the Hold. It tastes better- warmed." Toasted. Warmed. "In Nabol, I'm told they put slices of apple in the middle of a ham and cheese sandwich." "It's good," Leova quietly confirms in return, and without even the infinitesimal hesitation that might proceed a reply meant to be polite. Her lashes fall when his lift, when he describes the jam's origin, and she rolls the next bite in her mouth like that would help her figure it all out. "Even better. Well. Berries," is her guess, and she separates the halves to peek in before glancing up again. "They say, they put apples in about everything, Nabol way. Can't recall... but seems like it would be good. Melty cheese." Makes everything good! Now's the hesitation, though not quite from politeness: "It's food then, for you? Not just brews?" "Just brews." Anvori uses the last pieces of bread to press the halved figs into, with a layer of cheese and ham ontop. No jam spread. This is the sandwich he cuts into four triangles, picking up one to munch on himself. "But you learn the art of sandwiches, at the very least, when you're on the road. Can't be eating road-side tavern food forever, no?" Sandwich in hand, he turns to lean against the table, opposite of Leova's frontal lean in. "The word on the docks is that Tillek is stable. The memory of their fallen Lord distant and amnesty granted the once-lady and her son-... well, good news always trumps the bad ones, though some still question how Lord Tillek passed on so suddenly. Lord Potipher-. He's a good man." Just brews. "Costs too much," Leova agrees between bites, eyeing the triangles, though then she continues on the half-sandwich she'd started and not hurriedly, either. "Though. Don't reckon it ever tasted as good as this, just what it took to keep a body from growling.... Anyhow. That it's going well, that it's stable, I'm real glad to hear that. Hope it doesn't get shaken up again. That everything's... binding, and people keep believing." "Believing?" At his wryest, Anvori's tonal qualities sound remarkably similar to that of Satiet's, and with a brow that hitches up once more, he looks past his shoulders down upon the leaned Leova. While one hand retains hold of his sandwich, a little messily at tht with a fig oozing forth, the other precedes the turn of his body, back the same direction as the greenrider, all so he might push back some of her hair. Or at least the air where her hair might be, but really isn't. It could just be a ploy to run his fingers past her cheek. "That Potipher sits at home and knits doilies while his wife rules the Hold? Or that Edeline has stepped back dutifully from her Blood-granted rights?" Aware that he's verging away from his carefully cultivated persona, the hand at her cheek pulls away, turning into a 'halting' gesture. "Don't let it get around. The pretty man with liquor has a brain too." His smile emerges once more, cresting up lopsidedly along one side towards the sly little wink. "Tell me about yourself, Leova." "Believing," is Leova's very quiet confirmation, and it would be as easy to dodge his feint as it would have been to protect the fig to begin with. Or easier. Instead, she waits to see what Anvori does here too. Her eyes track his fingers, to see if they're messy too? before they've gone too far. And then they're just gone. For what he's had to say, she says, "That Tillek's run well, will continue to run well, will keep going and that's one less worry keeping everyone up at night." Then she holds up both hands instead of one, though one's occupied by her own sandwich: now she can halt. Really. "As you wish." For either? Both? Amused, "What would you like to know?" Aware that having Leova be an open book, or at least the semblance of one, is a rare deal, Anvori considers the greenrider a long, steady, non-flirtatious moment. He could ask anything of her, though she may not answer, and all he comes up with is a cheeky: "So what's so distracting?" "The way you..." Leova eyes him. Waves a crumb at him as though that cheekiness were all part and parcel of the same. Winds up with, "Glitter." Not quite right, maybe, but what she's got. "Does it distract you in interesting ways? My-," the grin, though it doesn't widen his mouth, is heard heavily in his voice, "Glitter?" Whether he's succeeded in derailing further conversation from the serious, only time will tell: skirting the edge of whatever had him pensively considering his mountains of sandwiches earlier or the subject of Edeline and her husband. "You're a very attractive woman and I confess," his tenor lowers to jive with the drop of his torso as he bends and braces his elbows against the counter, "My own distraction once you've come to stand by me." The last of his first triangle is popped into his mouth. A second is plucked. At even the very beginning of that, Leova squeezes her eyes shut, shut, shut, but it's not as though it's going to ward off his voice any, and so she opens them. And lo, he's still there. So she eyes him, at least when she's not putting off replying in favor of, look, chewing, which surely one can't be expected to do all at the same time. Which may be why he goes on, if he hadn't intended such already, and that leaves her with a dry, "Do you." Then, "And what have I distracted you from? Anvori." Anvori, silent, looks to Leova with those glittering hazel eyes and that smile that hovers somewhere in the good-natured lines of his face and in the faintest pull of his lips. He watches as her eyes shut and then open, and find that he's still there. And he watches while she chews and then speaks dryly. It's a sad sort of watching, one that's not quite looking at -her- as much as looking beyond the physical to that 'distraction,' that in the end, he voices as he pushes back from the table, keeping his hands busy with the cleaning endeavors while he speaks. "From who those sandwiches were originally for, Leova. See? Distraction." He even punctuates that last word with flickering spirit fingers. That narrows her gaze, distracts her from something of her distance. "Won't say I'm not curious," Leova says finally, but neither does she ask. Nor does she ask after one of the remaining quarter-triangles, though there's something about the way she looks at it until, suddenly, her eyes fly to his face. "Take some fruit with you. Some of both, to taste like summer." She doesn't have to ask when he's willing to tell. Anvori finishes cleaning up, all except wiping down the counter, for which he'd need a rag for but instead looks helplessly at a passing kitchenmaid. He must do this alot for she rolls her eyes and acquiesces, departing with a giggle as he irreverently pats her bottom on her way out. "For my sister. It's ok. She cancelled on me. So I'll be taking my wares off to my nieces." What's left of them at any rate. For all his lighthearted attitude, it's hard to completely mask the concern shadowing his eyes. "Next time, I promise. I promise I won't forget who you are, Leova." Plate in one hand, the other reaches over to brush the back of one finger against her cheek, "You're a distraction worth remembering." Leova straightens as the counter's wiped, the better to busy herself with the fruit and, once he says nieces, swapping out figs for apricots except for one that's tucked off to the side. For him? Or for the girls, to practice tasting so maybe someday they'll enjoy figs too. "They'll like the apricots better," she says, not looking up, not having to see his concern to recognize it in her own. And she doesn't look up until she's seen the plate into his hand and the rest of what he says lifts her gaze to his, even before he touches her. What she says is, gently again, "When you remember," if he remembers, "Ask me for your moonshine back. And thank you, for lunch." "Do you one better, since I can't imagine many moments where I won't be remembering you," says Anvori. "I'll come look for you the next time I remember my moonshine." With both hands to his plate, one last glance is given the counter, before he too, like the kitchenmaid before, is off. Which means that Leova spills into helpless laughter as she waves him off, has to wipe her eyes even before abandoning her fruit-delivery in favor of the rest of lunch. A rider's got to eat. But in the meantime? Distraction. |
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